


My Kind Of Metal

by Advocate_267



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Arguments, Gift Giving, Hesitant Alien references, M/M, communication is not their strong point, these boys need to stop making assumptions, yondu totally not being jelous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:08:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26232448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Advocate_267/pseuds/Advocate_267
Summary: Just another of Yondu and Kraglin's many arguments.
Relationships: Kraglin Obfonteri/Yondu Udonta
Comments: 1
Kudos: 53





	My Kind Of Metal

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song No Shows by Gerard Way.

Yondu appreciates his ship. It may not seem like it sometimes, with the rough abuse of the control console when things aren't going his way and the stacking list of renovations needed (then put off in favour of other pleasures, such as booze and bot hookers), but the respect was there. The old girl had served him right for years, carrying his merry band through all kinds of debauchery and near-death experiences that'd make a less steel-nerved spacer want to plant themselves planetside and never strike for the stars again. 

He's glad for the thrusters and engine that continues to propel his gang through the cosmos. He’s fond of the observant deck, where he and Kraglin spent many a peaceful night cycle as comets and explosions burst overhead

But most of all he's glad for his cabin. His private, dirty cabin with a blast proof door and thick walls that buffer grunts as well as secret tactic talk. 

Yondu lays splayed out atop his nest of furs; nude, out of breath, but more than satisfied with the evening's events. A scrawny body picks about the floor, looking for a holey sock that was tossed off in his scramble to get on with their 'stock meeting'.

Yondu lobs a bottle cap in a silent order to hurry up.

It doesn't hit, smacking the wall instead of the shaved side of Kraglin’s head, but has the desired effect. Kraglin finally shoves his boots on, he'll find the stubborn sock some other time, and zips his jumpsuit up to his chin. Aside from the faint flush refusing to leave his face there's no outward hint of what he and the captain got up too. 

"Remember ta check on Quill 'fore yer turn in." Yondu remarks as he leaves, waddling to the door in a slower equivalent of the dash of shame. "Boy's been spendin’ all his night cycle up listening to that damn music box. Can't have him fallin' asleep in tha vents again."

"Yes, sir." Kraglin's head bobs. He doesn't look back, exiting with as much professionalism as one wearing his captain’s teeth marks on his neck could. 

* * *

What goes on in the bedroom stays in the bedroom (or bathroom stall, or broom cupboard, etc). That includes all acts of 'lovey-shit' to use Yondu's term. That was fine by Kraglin, not everyone and their mother needed to know the captain made him weaker than a plasma bolt to the knee (Yondu most of all). 

Their thing was casual like, fucking being the extent of their intimacy. While kissing and caring crap was certainly off the table in a public setting Kraglin showed his fondness in other ways. A new trinket here, a flashy earring there, and a promise of being the best damn first mate a captain could ask for. He does his shifts, sorts out shit, disembowels any who dare get in the way of their goals. 

Yondu returns the gestures through subtle teasing and not-so-subtle barks of command. The crew don't comment (aside from the odd prod from Tullk, but due to their history Yondu can let him slide) however mutterings do rise. Rumours speculating ‘favourites’ and ‘sentiment’. At least the majority have the decency to do it when he's not in earshot.

They're on the bridge for first shift. Kraglin had done his rounds and was reporting back to Yondu. He’s rudely interrupted by the centenarian's wrist comm suddenly blaring to life. It admits a fast ditty and Yondu regrets giving the thing to Quill to tinker with to shut him up that time on Xandar. He jabs the receive button and Scrote's pixelated mug appears. "We got a punch up down in the mechanic bay," he rasps, looking more excited than he should. "Blan’s just gone for his drill. It's gettin' brutal, captain."

Yondu curses. The damn mechanics were always going at each other's throats for one daft reason or another. 

Kraglin jabs a thumb at the door, one hand on his holster. "Yer want me to go deal with that?" 

“Go on.” Yondu waves him off. "Make sure to give 'em proper discipline for causin’ a ruckus on duty, yeah?" 

Kraglin flashes a smile borderline nasty and saunters off to take care of things. While Yondu certainly didn't want to deal with that rowdy lot Kraglin's absence did prove a hindrance. The first mate provided infinite entertainment when in the vicinity. Now Yondu's left in the captain's chair, growing bored of flicking through ship specifics on his datapad and fiddling with the little plastic creature he found in his pocket.

He goes to check communications, they were always bitching about how he needed to clear out his inbox. The comms lot, a smart little crew of ravagers, most sporting ailments making them unsuitable to be field agents but brainy enough to prove useful, thump their chests in greeting. They keep all the ravager's communication devices running smooth. The elector's intacom is also located here, a little fact Yondu is determined to keep from Quill as long as possible, lest the terran get any ideas about piping his music through every corridor.

He plonks himself at one of the empty stations; a few were always kept unassigned for the captain, first mate or any other ravager looking to contact far-flung family (or order in their hooker preferences in advance). As expected his inbox is overflowing with spam and a few complaints from various bar owners his lot had terrorised at the last couple of ports. They're all ignored, promptly deleted.

One note catches his eye, the subject 'precious metal' making the greedy part of him lurch. Before he can open it the screen flashes red and yellow in response to an incoming call. There's no assigned contact photo and the name, Melixa Violo, is unfamiliar. Yondu squints at it and decides _what the hell_ , tapping the receive button. The flashing fades out and Yondu's greeted by a pinched lilac face akin to that of a disfigured hyena. 

The woman, he _thinks_ that’s a woman, if the ridiculously extravagant eyelashes and lairy makeup are any indication, wrinkled their nose in disgust.

"I'm looking for Mr Obfonteri."

"Well hello to you too." Yondu huffs, looking affronted. "You got any idea who you're talking too?"

"Not Mr Obfonteri. Would you get him for me, please?"

 _Please?_ Definitely not their usual clientele. This is setting all kinds of alarm bells in Yondu's head. A strange, unknown woman trying to contact his first mate? Sure, could be an innocent enquiry, but experience doesn't let Yondu take risks. 

"Sorry ta disappoint miss but Kraggles is a little tied up at the moment." He reclines in the chair, boots thrown up to rest by the screen. He ignores the tutting of the nearest comms officer. His annoyance flips to sleazy charm, yellow teeth on display. "But ah happen ta be a close college of his. Ya wanna leave a message?"

She sniffs, not even gracing Yondu with her static stare. "I'd rather not. It is to discuss matters of a personal nature."

"Yeah? Well I can discuss matters that are personal-like too, such as how flarkin' queasy yer face is makin' me." Yondu pulls his own mug into the most disgusted expression possible. "Seriously, ah wouldn’t fuck ya blindfolded."

Her white eyes narrow. "Just tell him Melixa called." She hangs up without another word, screen minimising back to Yondu's inbox. He stares at it for a minute, trying to make sense of whatever just occurred. 

“Huh, crazy bint.”

He checks the rest of his messages then stomps back to his throne. For some reason the call had put him in a bad mood. Yondu blames it on the chick's annoying voice. Too high pitched, too hoity-toity for ravager tastes. He doesn't dwell on it, the thought slipping from his mind when Kraglin comes back with a dopey grin and blood splattering his front. Yondu slaps his back for a job well done. 

* * *

After the mechanic bay incident the day’s fraught with minor disasters. By the time Yondu and Kraglin clock out both are in mighty need of some R and R (That is, Rough and Rowdiness). 

They've ended up on the floor this time, rolling around in the dust and grime. Once again Yondu's satisfaction is reached but it's tinged with unexplained sourness. His reactions had been real but for some reason he just couldn’t quite relax as usual. As Kraglin's making himself presentable for his walk across the corridor Yondu breaks his silent rule and shoves the first mate’s shoulder. "You know a chick by the name of Melixa?"

Kraglin freezes as if he's been hit with a stun dart. He returns to zipping up his boots, albeit at a slower pace. "Yeah, why?" 

"Missed a call from ‘er earlier. Who is she?" He tries not to sound too invasive. Yondu doesn't care who his first mate chats up in his downtime. His main concern is that she's not some ex out to seek long-standing revenge (because, aside from his bedroom skills, Kraglin is one of the most competent beings on the ship. First mates like that were hard to come by). 

Kraglin's eyes are averted and it isn't for the normal reasons. "Just a contact."

"What kinda contact?” Yondu grates, recalling the woman’s pale purple skin and full head of silky hair. “Doesn't seem your type." 

"What?” Kraglin whips round to face him, bushy eyebrows hiking up. “Whatta you mean?”

Yondu rolls his eyes. “C’mon Obfonteri, ah know ya like ‘em blue and buff.” He flexes, teeth bared in a smirk. “Not pinkish and pretty-like.” 

“So what?” Kraglin’s tone turns defensive, going back to tugging on his boots. “I don’t complain when you take bots to bed.” He ducks his head, grumbling. “Ain’t like this is no more than fuckin’ anyway.”

“Who said anything’ about complaining?” Yondu counters. He’d heard that last bit, cheeky git, what _more_ does he want? 

“Well you’re asking a lotta questions for someone who ‘doesn’t care’” He straightens and stomps straight outta there, this time not bothering to hide the hickeys that dot his neck like fresh tattoos. 

* * *

Following that exchange things got a little frosty between them. They do their shifts as normal, prevent the crew getting antsy or mutinous on them, but damn is Yondu getting sick of the looks Kraglin’s giving him. One minute he’s glaring, stink eye so fierce Yondu’d start to get concerned that his first mate’s been hiding a laser vision ability from him. The next he looks like a lovesick Xandian teen, moping about the bridge in a sad sulk.

Yondu doesn’t get it. He was only looking out for his first mate. And so what if the extent of their relationship was fierce lovin’ in every dirty nook of the Eclector? Boy’d never complained before. 

Inevitably they had to talk to each other at some point. Yondu spots Kraglin in the training bay, letting off steam after a shift of sorting out stocks. That job was as frustrating as it was tedious and always managed to wind Krag to the max. Since his usual stress relieve of screwing Yondu was currently off the table he had to resort to blasting targets to smithereens. 

Yondu watches a set, lent against the back wall. 

When Kraglin turns from his targets he startles, spotting his captain. 

"We're stopping on Hesttan soon." Yondu states gruffly. "You got plans?"

"Yes, actually." Kraglin shuffles out the booth, gun shoved back into his holster, tone just a little too sharp. Gone is the glare, replaced with sudden sheepishness. "Gotta meet someone."

" _Someone_ huh?" Yondu doesn’t scowl in jealousy. He grins instead. "This your purple booty call?” 

"So _what_? Ain't like you'd come along."

Yondu’s smile is gone instantly, "What’s that supposed ta mean?" 

"Whatta ya think?" 

Yondu thinks his first mate is being unreasonable. Here he is, trying to make sure Kraglin isn't about to walk into some cobra's nest, and he's throwing a tizzy about it! Yondu makes this known, countering with a huffy barb. 

"Well that's great, 'cause ah’ve got a date myself.” He turns then, coat swishing as he thunders away. Fine, let Kraglin sulk off to canoodle with his odd date. Yondu didn’t need him to have a good time anyhow. 

* * *

The centaurian’s ‘date’ turned out to be the buyer who’d contacted him in regards to ‘precious metals’. He flinched the ugly thing right off a Nova dame's finger during their last gala gate crash. Yondu'd be tempted to keep it for himself but alas the job list was drying up and men needed paying. Sometimes sacrifices need to be made, for the greater good and all. 

For now though he wears it proudly on his pinkie, a bluish-grey contradiction to the black and red outfit he'd conned together for the venue. Their rendezvous was a swanky joint, had a dress code and all; one that frowned upon crusty old leathers. 

He finds it easy enough, hard to miss the brightly glowing sign proclaiming 'Pink Station Zero' in bright fuchsia letters and enters with a swagger in his step. The inside was a contradiction to the seedy joins the ravagers frequented, all clean floors and not a druggy in sight. There was a bar though and Yondu promptly went there to indulge while waiting for the buyer. 

The prices were extortionate, even the cheapest stuff a step up from his usual fare. Yondu let himself splurge on some high-end shit, selecting a sparkly brew served with sliced strawberry. Too much sugar, not enough alcohol in his opinion but sipping it gives him something to do. He’s on his third when the establishment’s entertainment starts up, a musical act consisting of a quartet of various species singing about ‘getting the band back together’. His buyer still hadn’t shown. 

“Captain?”

He pulls his gaze away from the stage to meet a familiar pair of baby blues. Yondu sits up, ogling at the oddly-clean man before him. “Kraglin, whatta ya doin’ here boy? And...what tha fuck are ya wearin?” 

Because while the man before him is certainly his first mate, that nose and facial scar were hard to misplace, something is decidedly off about his getup. Like Yondu he’d lost his ravager reds, replaced by a navy blue suit and- “Is that a tie?” 

Kraglin fiddles with it, looking oddly nervous. “...Yeah. Been here waitin’ for someone. Saw ya across the bar. What are _you_ doing here?”

“Got business to attend to.” Yondu states, taking a slurp from his drink nonchalantly. 

“Well, do ya mind if ah sit with yer a bit? Feels kinda awkward drinkin' over there all alone.” 

Yondu’s reply is a simple grunt which Kraglin translates as ‘fine by me’. He perches on the stool to his left, setting aside the bunch of red and blue posies he’s been clutching and pulls out his wallet. Like a right gentlemen. 

“I’ll buy us a round.”

That first round turns into two, then three, then five until both are feeling loose enough to forget their apparent argument. They joke as the band plays on, poking fun at all the high-brow customers and their wardrobes. 

It’s late into the evening when Yondu’s wrist com buzzes, reminding him of his original reasoning for being there in the first place. He groggily reads the message, having to do it several times as the letters shifted in and out of focus. 

“Son of a Skrull!”

His fist thumps the bar top. Kraglin, sleepily resting his head against the counter, tumbles off his stool. He pulls himself back up, peering at Yondu through squinted eyes. For some reason the room seemed too bright. 

“What’s up?”

“My buyer’s bailed! Good for nothing flack-eater.”

Kraglin sighed, peeking at his own watch. “Doesn’t look like my date’s showin’ either. Pity, gal had some potential gigs fer us.” He turned to Yondu, eyes sad. “Ah know the job pools been dryin' up. Wanted ta supise ya.”

Well he'd succeeded. Yondu’s whips to face him . Krag looks so...disappointed. Not because he got stood up. Not because he was missing out on some action. Because he’d failed Yondu. 

The dame on the phone made sense now.

Yondu feels stupid.

“Hey,” He bumps his side, gentler than normal. “We dun need no one else to have a good time. Up fer another one?” 

Kraglin brightens, nodding. 

“Didn’t even know yer knew how ta clean up this good.” Yondu remarks once their glasses have been replenished, treating his first mate to a slow up and down check up. 

Kraglin rubs the back of his neck nervously. “Took a lotta scrubbin’.” 

“S’nice suit too.”

“Thanks Capt’n.” He reddens a little behind his collar. “Quill, uh, helped me pick it out. Ya don’t look too bad yerself.”

“And what’s with the flowers?” Yondu gestured to the flowers, left abandoned.

“Ah, wanted to butter her up a bit, maybe irk some more outta the deal.”

“Never knew ya were such a charmer, Obfonteri.” He teases. “What do you plan on doin’ with ‘’em?”

Kraglin shrugged. “Was gonna dump ‘em in the nearest trash bin, to be honest.”

“That’d be a waste,” Yondu chirps, cupping one of the bloomers. “Real purty.” 

“You can keep ‘em if you want. Ah got an empty bottle in my quarters we could put them it, .”

Yondu hums in appreciation. The last plant life he’d brought on board had died when Quill was still bitesize (and was currently still languishing somewhere on one of his cabin shelves). A little colour might do the room some good. 

“Here.” Without thinking Yondu ripped the ring off his finger, sliding it onto Kraglin’s slimmer one. At the first mate’s confused look he elaborates "Can't be bothered to hunt down another buyer. Ya may as well have it." 

He tacts on awkwardly "Reminds me of yer face." 

Kraglin’s eyes alight. He peers at the stone, smile wobbly. "Really? Capt'n that's-"

"Ugly.”

Kraglin’s face falls. Yondu looks away.

“And...precious." 

Proper compliments aren’t his forfrond, usually voiced in the privacy of his own head. Such a rarity has an instant and extreme effect on the first mate; He practically melts, face flushed a ruddy shade as he admires the unexpected gift. 

Yondu doesn’t see it, grumpily turned away to nurse the rim of his glass. Beneath the bar a warm, scarred hand binds it’s fingers with his, the ring brushing against his skin.

“Thanks Yondu.” It’s whispered, only for the centarian’s ears. 

“Don’t mention it, ever. Don’t want the rest of tha’ crew knowin’ I spoil ya.”

“Hmm,” Kraglin, face still crimson, makes a vague gesture in the direction of the bloke’s restroom. “You wanna..?” 

Yondu’s sold. He grins, one part seductive and one part adoring, and leads Kraglin away, fingers still conjoined.


End file.
